


Watson Withdrawal

by LiveAndLetLive



Series: A Lot of Not Talking [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, M/M, Nightmares, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveAndLetLive/pseuds/LiveAndLetLive
Summary: “It’s been downhill since… Mary died.” John forces out, holding Sherlock’s gaze and making sure to keep his fists still.Sherlock runs his hands over his face.“You can’t even look at Rosie. Or me.” John smirks ruefully. “Have I not... lost enough?”
Relationships: Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: A Lot of Not Talking [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964161
Comments: 6
Kudos: 98





	Watson Withdrawal

“Where are you off to?”

Despite the numerous insults, John wasn’t so much of an idiot that he couldn’t see what was happening. He had just reached the top of the stairs, a tired Rosie on his hip, when he spots Sherlock shrug on his coat.

This was quite a familiar scenario. Sherlock was constantly trying to be anywhere John– and by extension, Rosie- wasn’t. A father’s instinct told him Rosie was missing the stupid git, a feeling shared between the Watsons, and John wasn’t having it anymore.

“Take her for a moment.” John says, handing over his drowsy daughter. Sherlock looks a bit startled but holds her gently against his chest. John kisses the back of her head, gives Sherlock a smile (as if that would throw him off the scent), and turns back down the stairs.

He walks to Mrs Hudson’s door, stepping only on the creaky floorboards Sherlock was sure to hear from above. He didn’t really need to visit her, but to finally get those two alone, any excuse would do.

Sherlock slowly sits down with her on the sofa, watching her head rise and fall with each of his breaths. He tries to shallow his breathing so she wouldn’t be jostled too much and runs his hand up and down her back.

He didn’t really have to go out, but any excuse would do.

-

_“There, there, Watson.” Sherlock soothed, Rosie placing her hands on his cheeks. She flashed him a smile before her concentration was redirected back to his nose. Sherlock surreptitiously glanced over at John in the kitchen, smirking to himself._

_“John Watson was awfully bright, except matters concerning his height.” Sherlock began, watching for John’s reaction from the corner of one mischievous eye whilst tapping the rhythm onto Rosie’s back._

_“Sherlock.” John warned, somewhat half-heartedly._

_“Suggest that he’s short, and you’ll find yourself caught, in a rather unjustified fight.”_

_John folded his arms and leaned back against the counter, his smile giving him away._

-

John wakes himself up by screaming. His chest burns as if he hasn’t been breathing and his shirt clings to his skin. He finds himself flung back into his surroundings by the piercing wail of his daughter.

“Sher-“ John manages, before his lungs force him to take another heaving breath.

“Sherlock!” John shouts again, worsening the distress of his daughter. He covers his eyes with a shaking hand and hears footsteps running up the stairs. Was he safe? Where was he? Was Rosie safe? Why is she crying? At the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, he grabs at its wrist, ready to snap it, until he meets familiar eyes. John lets go, feels himself burn up and knows he needs to get out.

“Can you-“ John chokes out, stumbling past Sherlock and out of the bedroom.

Sherlock watches John as he leaves before picking the frightened child up from her cot, shushing her and swaying from side to side. Sherlock takes a breath to steady himself, needing to be calm himself if he wants the same for Rosie.

“There, there, Watson. It’s alright now.” He whispers, letting her hands pull at his dressing gown and hair.

He hates it when she needs him: he doesn’t want to be the one she needs.

In the living room, John sits on the sofa and tries not to rock. The leather is cold under his legs, helping the room to stop spinning, and he begins to allow the waves of guilt to wash over him. He scares his own child and pressures Sherlock to clean up the mess. He swears there was some whiskey left behind the-

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asks quietly, standing awkwardly in front of John.

“Yeah.” John rushes, linking his hands behind his neck and trying to hide his face.

“This is the third time this week.” Sherlock points out, hesitantly.

“Piss off, Sherlock.” John snaps, his guilt tripling as soon as he’d spat the words. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” He whispers after a few moments, needing at least one of them to be alright. Running a hand through his hair, he looks first at Sherlock’s reddened wrist and then at Sherlock’s carefully blank eyes. “I can’t keep doing that to her. Can I-“

“Yes.” Sherlock cuts in, preserving the scraps of John’s dignity. “I don’t sleep in there much anyway.”

-

_“Sherlock, get out of your mind palace.” John said, standing in front of the cross-legged detective, situated on the floor. He didn’t really need Sherlock for anything but company._

_“Oi.” John tried again, gently nudging Sherlock’s leg with his foot._

_Making up his mind, he picked his daughter up from her high-chair and placed her in Sherlock’s lap. She squealed in joy, startling Sherlock to open his eyes. His eyebrows scrunched together as he tried to work out where this child had appeared from. He was not so impressed when he looked up to find John’s smug smile._

_“Mary said that would work.”_

-

“He’s out.” John clarifies, a bit caught out by the arrival of Mycroft Holmes. John returns his attention to the baby food that has found its way into Rosie’s curls. Her mother’s hair.

“It’s as if he’s deliberately avoiding me.” Mycroft smiles falsely. “But it’s not him I’m here to speak with.”

John looks at him, slightly startled, but a saddened part of him had expected this. John stands up and steps closer to Mycroft, tilting his head down to show his attention.

“His recent online activity suggests he is currently looking for a new flat.” Mycroft says, his grip tightening on his umbrella.

John steps back and scoffs in disbelief with a smirk that was rapidly slipping from his face. Mycroft’s face briefly resembles something close to an afterthought of sympathy. “I suspect there is a lot more going on in that head of his than he is letting on.” Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs. “Talk to him. Please.”

John watches him walk back down the stairs- stairs he and Sherlock had limped, ran and slouched on together.

-

_Keys were heard to be scratching at the lock of 221B. Sherlock Holmes sauntered in, followed by an unsteady John Watson, who pushed passed Sherlock clumsily._

_“You’ve got to get it. You’ve got to.” John laughed, clearly very proud of himself. Sherlock leaned against the banister, smiling dumbly as he watched John disappear and reappear with his deerstalker. John placed it wonkily on Sherlock’s head and stepped back into the wall to admire his work. Sherlock gasped suddenly._

_“We need to get you a hat.” Sherlock declared, staring determinedly at the top of John’s head._

_John folded his arms, smiling with his eyes closed._

_“Fez?”_

-

Sherlock sits on the bed with his back to John, who was already under the duvet and watching Sherlock with a scowl.

“Okay, can we just-“ John starts, running a hand over his forehead. “You’re moving out?”

Sherlock freezes before he could hide it, yet smoothly gets under the covers as if he had never given himself away. He lies down facing away from John.

“Mycroft needs to learn to keep his nose out of my business. Even as children: ‘Sherlock, you and I both know Mummy doesn’t approve of roadkill in the kitchen-‘“

“-Why?” John interrupts, sitting up.

Sherlock doesn’t move. “Goodnight, John.” John forcefully turns his lamp back on.

Sherlock shoots out of the bed.

John mirrors him.

Both men stare at each other, a bed between them.

“It’s been downhill since… Mary died.” John forces out, holding Sherlock’s gaze and making sure to keep his fists still. Sherlock runs his hands over his face. “You can’t even look at Rosie. Or me.” John smirks ruefully. “Have I not… lost enough?”

Sherlock meets his gaze darkly. “That is precisely why I need to go.”

John’s shoulders sag and his face reveals how tired he is. Sherlock sees this and softens his own posture.

“Just…” John begins softly, his eyes closed. “… get back in the bed.”

Sherlock looks down at his feet before doing as asked. John does the same, and soon they both find themselves staring at the ceiling. They listen to the occasional rustle of sheets, both aware of the distance between them.

“I wish it was the other way around.” Sherlock confesses, exhausted.

“Don’t say that.” John closes his eyes.

“She was a wife and a mother.”

John rolls closer to Sherlock, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s arm. He takes Sherlock’s hand and squeezes. “She was on borrowed time. And she knew how much... you were needed. Please, Sherlock.”

Neither man moves for a while, but John finally lets himself drift off when he feels a slender hand over his own.

-

When he opens his eyes, Sherlock isn’t there.

John feels his stomach flip and he quickly glances around the room. When he hears Sherlock’s voice in the kitchen, he breathes for the first time that morning. The baby monitor picks up on Rosie’s tell-tale ‘I’m going to scream if my dad doesn’t get in here’ noises, so he runs a hand through his hair and gets up.

He walks in to see her sitting up on her own, lifting her arms up to him.

“Hello, sweetheart.” John murmurs, picking her up. He lets his hand float through her curls and for the first time, doesn’t grieve for Mary whilst doing so. He hugs her close for a few moments, only loosening his hold when she begins to kick him.

“Alright, alright.” John murmurs, carrying her to the living room. “Morning, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, John.” Mrs Hudson turns to him hurriedly. “Sherlock’s just gone out doing that sad look he does. See if he’s alright, I’ll look after little Rosie.”

John sighs. “God, thank you.” He sets Rosie down in her high-chair and cringes at her unhappy cry.

“We’ll be alright, John.” Mrs Hudson placates, patting his back for him to go.

John swiftly kisses Mrs Hudson on the cheek and jogs down the stairs. When he reaches the street, he scratches the back of his neck and looks instinctually towards Angelo’s.

He spots him smoking, his back resting against a wall, and so John starts walking swiftly towards him. Sherlock watches his approach, practically wolfing his cigarette down now. When John stops in front of him, he stares at Sherlock for a moment, before taking the cigarette out of his fingers.

Sherlock drops his gaze to his feet but quickly looks back up to a choking John. Coughing the inhaled smoke from his lungs, John throws the cigarette into a nearby puddle, extinguishing it immediately.

“Bloody disgusting.” John frowns.

When he sees Sherlock smirking, he turns to stand next to him.

He can’t help but lean against Sherlock’s arm, smiling when he feels Sherlock lean back.

**Author's Note:**

> They have quite a way to go.


End file.
